The Pirate Ruse

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Growling with self-disgust and frustration, he retrieved a discarded shirt from his desk. As he slipped it over his head, he frowned, however, glancing about the room. Navarrone the Blue Blade kept more shirts about him than the average pirate. As he looked to his clothing spread over the floor, the chaise, and his desk, he realized the girl must have tried every shirt he possessed before settling on one to wear for modesty. Striding across the room, he settled himself before the door—rested his arms on his knees.

  “Bothersome little vixen that you are, Cristabel Albay,” he grumbled. “I was looking forward to those biscuits.”

  Chapter Four

  The sunlight seemed to scorch her eyes, even for the fact they were yet closed. Cristabel was certain the hammer and anvil causing the throbbing ache in her head were indeed penned up inside it. Her throat burned; nausea engulfed her stomach; her limbs were so weak she could hardly move. Had she been beaten? Tortured? Was she ill, poisoned? As her mind struggled to comprehend the miserable state of her being, Cristabel vaguely remembered Captain Navarrone’s threat to deprive her of food and drink until she confessed all she knew.

  An image of a crate—of a tin of Marie Blanchard Biscuits—mingled with a vision of the young pirate James Kelley. Had he, in secret, gifted her a flask of water, or had she dreamed it? She tried to move, for her lips felt parched, her throat continuing to burn, and she was desperate for water. Yet her arms and legs felt as if they were made of lead! The excruciating pain in her head was near unbearable, and when she opened her eyes, the light caused them to tear.

  “The best remedy is to take your time, love.”

  The pirate’s voice echoed though her mind, causing the brutal aching in her head to increase. Tears escaped her eyes, spilling over her cheeks.

  Cristabel opened one eye—a tiny slit—to see Captain Navarrone hunkered down next to his berth, on which she lay.

  “You did this to me,” she breathlessly accused.

  “No, love,” he said. He shrugged then, adding, “Well, perhaps in a manner. But you are the one whose belligerence found you sipping at a bottle of rum.”

  “Rum?” Cristabel breathed. “What are you saying?”

  “You went and got yourself sloshed, love,” he answered. He was grinning with amusement, and she wanted to slap him, but she lacked the strength.

  “You did not beat me into feeling this way?” she asked.

  He shook his head and chuckled. “No. You did this to yourself.”

  Cristabel then owned a rather misty memory—a bottle of rum, in the crate with the tin of biscuits.

  “I-I have never had a drink of it before,” she said. “I did not think it would be so…so miserably affecting…even for it being so loathsome to swallow.”

  The handsome pirate sighed. “Most of us learn a hard lesson or two. Sometimes we make a wrong choice, and there’s not so much harm done.” He frowned, adding, “More often, one decision can change the entire course of a life. You remember that, love…before you take to drinking rum again.”

  “Lessons in morality from a pirate?” she grumbled. Even the sound of her own voice increased the pain in her head.

  “Lessons in morality are of value no matter where they come from,” he said.

  He took hold of her arms at her shoulders, and she meant to struggle—but she could not. “Here now,” he said, pulling her to a sitting position. “Sit up, and we’ll get some food into you. Water too. It will do you good.”

  “Ow!” she moaned as the hammering in her head augmented. A wave of nausea overwhelmed her, and she feared whatever contents were in her stomach might make an appearance out through her mouth. “I’m sick!” she sobbed.

  “There you are then,” Navarrone said, placing a pot on her lap.

  “A chamber pot?” she whispered as heaving nearly overtook her.

  “Not to worry. We scalded it.”

  Cristabel looked beyond the chamber pot in her lap to the black boots projecting from her knees where her calves and feet should be. She wiggled her toes and was disturbed to find that she did indeed wear a pair of pirate boots.

  “No doubt your feet were cold,” Captain Navarrone offered.

  “Yours?” she asked, nodding toward the boots.

  The pirate studied the boots a moment. “It would seem so,” he answered.

  Cristabel looked at her hands, for they were trembling and somewhat numb. It was then she noticed the far-too-long sleeves at her arms—the lacings at her bosom where only her chemise and corset should be. She gasped as realization washed over. She wore his shirt?

  “Yours?” she breathed, more tears escaping her eyes. “Oh no!”

  “Correct,” Navarrone said. “Apparently you were in need of further attire, being that I kept yours from you. That is all…nothing more to it than that.”

  “Swear it!” she begged.

  “I swear it,” he assured her.

  Still she wept. “But you’re a pirate. I cannot trust your swearing.”

  “Oh, when it comes to my swearing, love, believe me…you can trust in it,” he chuckled.

  Cristabel frowned, suspicious of her captor. He seemed a great deal more congenial in manner than he had the previous day. Yet she could not fathom why.

  “You shared a great deal with me last night, love,” he said, rising to his feet.

  “I did?” she asked, tremulous with dread.

  “Information, girl. Merely information.” He smiled, and she was angry with him for finding entertainment in her misery.

  There was a knock on the cabin door.

  “Enter,” Navarrone said.

  “Cook sent the eggs, Cap’n…and quite a pile of bacon,” James Kelley said as he entered carrying a plate heaping with food in one hand, a large tankard in the other. “A bit of fresh water, as well.”

  “You’re fortunate the Chichester had fresh stores, girl,” Captain Navarrone said, “else you’d have nothing but hardtack to eat…being that you devoured my treasured tin of Marie Blanchard Biscuits.”

  “You threatened me with starvation and thirst,” Cristabel managed. She watched as James Kelley placed the plate of food on the berth next to her—handed the tankard of water to his captain.

  “Thank you, James,” Navarrone said.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” James said, smiling at his leader. “Good luck, miss,” the lad added to Cristabel before turning and leaving the room.

  “I did threaten you with starvation and thirst,” Captain Navarrone admitted. He grinned. “Though if you remember…I likewise offered to quench your thirst myself. There was no need to swim in the devil rum.”

  “I did not know I would be so…so overcome by so little,” Cristabel confessed.

  “Sometimes a spoonful of wickedness leads to a mountain of regret.”

  Cristabel grimaced and gritted her teeth, though it pained her head to do so. She glared at him, wondering what right a pirate had to churn ethical metaphors.

  “Yes, I know. No more lessons in morality…especially preached by the immoral,” Navarrone chuckled. “I’ll leave you to your convalescing then. Eat a small portion of eggs and then bacon. If your stomach does not refuse it, then eat more. Sip the water as well. Do not be greedy.” He set the tankard of water on the berth.

  “I suppose I should thank you for not…for not…” she stammered.

  “For not despoiling you when I had the chance last evening?” he finished for her. She frowned, unsettled, and he continued, “Fear not, love. The only parts of you revealed to me last night were memories of your abduction and journey to the Chichester.”

  Cristabel gasped as Captain Navarrone then took hold of the heel of each boot she wore, stripping them from her feet in one swift motion. “Forgive me, but I am in need of my boots, wench.” He chuckled. “Ah! How many times have I uttered that phrase, eh?”

  “You’re vile,” Cristabel growled with disgust.

  “Oh, you have no idea, love,” he said, pulling on the boots. “Hmm,” he hummed
, looking at her. “Fancy that. They’re still warm.”

  Perhaps he was not so congenial after all—still a vulgar pirate, only less ill-tempered.

  “Now, eat up, love,” he said, striding for the door, “for you and I have matters to discuss before we reach New Orleans. Though you revealed much last night, you are still keeping secrets…and I mean to harvest them from you.” He paused, glowering at her over one shoulder. “By whatever means necessary.”

  Captain Navarrone closed the door, and Cristabel melted into sobbing.

  *

  By the warm, orange light in the cabin, Cristabel knew she had been asleep for hours. Very groggy and still weak, Cristabel sat up. As full consciousness was hers, she yet paused, remembering the miserable state of her being when last she had awakened. After a moment, however, she began to feel that her head did not ache so painfully as it had—that she did not feel overwhelmed by nausea. Carefully, she moved to stand, bracing herself against the wall with one hand for a moment, uncertain as to how long her legs would support her. When she did not collapse, she was reassured.

  The vilest taste lingered in her mouth, and she remembered the tankard of water. She hoped she had not already drunk it all. She glanced about for the tankard, surprised to see a small glass vial sitting on the floor next to the tankard. Picking up the vial, she removed its lid and was immediately met with the strong, rather frosty scent of peppermint.

  “Peppermint oil,” she whispered, and she could not help smiling, for Captain Navarrone had proved his intelligence once more. Peppermint oil was rare, wildly expensive, and very effective in treating nausea and ailments of the stomach and bowels. Cristabel knew the vile taste lingering in her mouth would also be vanquished with a drop of the oil derived from the leaves of a species of herb plant. Carefully, she tipped the vial, allowing two drops of the oil to alight on her finger.

  Placing her finger to her tongue, she smiled and sighed, “Mmm!” Lifting the tankard lid, she allowed several drops of peppermint oil to mix with the water it contained. Gripping the tankard handle, she swirled the water and oil a moment before drinking of its heavenly refreshment.

  Cristabel sipped the peppermint-laced water as she combed her hair with Captain Navarrone’s bone comb. She removed the pirate’s shirt she’d slept in, straightened her chemise and corset, and even dabbed some of the water from the tankard beneath her eyes and on her neck to freshen herself. Within half the hour, Cristabel felt much recovered. She likewise considered that it might be best to dwindle of thirst before ever pilfering rum again. It was no wonder rum was referred to as the demon drink. Cristabel was inwardly disgusted with herself for owning such ignorance—in owning such thorough belligerence that she had attempted to best Captain Navarrone by drinking rum when he had threatened to let her linger in thirsting.

  She thought again of his threats—as well as his vile offering to quench her thirst with the moisture of his own.

  “Blackguard,” she mumbled. Yet in the next moment, she wondered how many pirate wenches had known such a manner of thirst quenching from him. “Filthy pirate!” she exclaimed to the air.

  Cristabel went to a porthole near the berth, opened it, and inhaled a breath of salty sea air. She had survived her first night as captive aboard the Merry Wench, and it was more than many men had done.

  She frowned, remembering then that Navarrone had claimed she had revealed information to him—information regarding her abduction and journey to the Chichester. She tried to remember exactly what she had told him—what had transpired the night before—but she could not. There were only wisps of memory, and those were clouded and nonsensical.

  Navarrone had promised he would return to extract further information from her, and Cristabel knew she must own far more wisdom in dealing with her captor than she had previously. Thus, she contemplated—reviewed the events that now found her, yet alive, aboard the Merry Wench and on her way back to New Orleans.

  The abduction was terrifying! In fact, Cristabel mused that enduring abduction was most likely why she was not as astonished as she perhaps should be at lingering in the company of pirates. Strangers had come in the middle of the night, dragged her from her bed, bound her, gagged her, and carried her to a small boat. As remembered fear began to wash over her, she chose not to linger on those moments but to think instead of her time aboard the Chichester.

  “Are you feeling better then?”

  The sound of his voice startled her. Still, she looked to him, feigning courage—as ever she did. Oh, but he was handsome! A weak-minded maiden might well be seduced by his physical allure alone. Cristabel was thankful she was not a weak-minded maiden, though she further mused that were he not a pirate—were he a gentleman—she might allow herself a morsel of weak-mindedness. She gritted her teeth, inwardly scolding herself for thinking any good thoughts of a pirate.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “And thank you for the peppermint.”

  He nodded. He then turned and called out, “James Kelley…bring the trunk.”

  Cristabel watched as James Kelley and another member of the crew carried in the trunk she recognized as being her own. She looked to the pirate captain, and he nodded to her once more. Thus, she made her decision. In that very instant, she chose to be compatible with the pirate—not combative. After all, had he wanted her dead, he would have killed her already. Had he wanted to ravage her, he would likewise have ravaged her already. Therefore, in those brief moments, Cristabel Albay began to believe that perhaps she did know something of worth to Captain Navarrone. Furthermore, if she did own some knowledge he desired to glean from her, it may well be the further saving of her life.

  James Kelley smiled at Cristabel before taking his leave, and she sensed he was a kind sort of boy. After all, he had also in secret slipped her a flask of water the night before. She thought him brave, for he had defied his captain’s orders—risked a no doubt harsh reprimand in the least.

  Captain Navarrone closed the cabin door and then turned to her and said, “I am allowing you to have your things.”

  “May I dress?” she asked. Oh, she would not be combative, but she would not be too demure and agreeable, lest he think she was weak.

  She felt a blush rise to her cheeks as Captain Navarrone cocked his head to one side, studying the length of her.

  “You are dressed, love,” he said. “As modest as any other woman of my acquaintance. No need to cause yourself discomfort in this balmy air by adding another layer of attire.”

  Cristabel must proceed with care—this she sensed. She must not attempt to best him in constancy, yet she could not forever lean to forfeit.

  “You make a point,” she said. “The air is balmy, and you are used to women donning less attire. Furthermore, I do not sense that you plan to allow me to leave this room in the near future. Thus I will remain comfortable as I am.”

  Cristabel was far from comfortable lingering in the presence of a man (any man) dressed only in her undergarments. Still, she would not allow him to know he yet intimidated her. Even for the intoxication that had overtaken her from drinking the rum—even for the weakness and vulnerable state it had forced her to—Navarrone knew he could not easily bully her into obeying his will. She must keep the pretense that she would not be bullied.

  “Still, I would like my hairbrush,” she said, going to her trunk, “since you are allowing me the freedom of accessing my things.”

  “Of course,” he said. He stood near her, watching as she opened the trunk.

  As she lifted the trunk’s lid—as she saw the ransacked state of its contents—she sighed. “I see you have already taken inventory here.”

  “We took inventory of everything we brought aboard from the Chichester,” he said. The right corner of his mouth curved. “Though admittedly, I did not trust that you might try to kill me with some feminine article buried in its belly. Thus, I took the liberty of making certain there were no sharp items within.”

  “Well, it’s certainly obvious pirates do not
own the organizational concerns or care for clothing and delicates that British sailors do,” she said. “All my things were perfectly ordered…all my clothing well folded when I first opened the trunk aboard the Chichester.”

  Navarrone frowned. He thought of the tale of her abduction—the one she had shared so openly while intoxicated the night before.

  “You say…all your things were in order?” he asked. “The clothes neatly folded?”

  “Yes,” she said, and he saw the bewilderment on her pretty face.

  “Yet you told me it was not the British who took you from your home…but men speaking French…Acadians,” he said. “Mercenaries would not pause to pack a trunk…especially with care.” He saw the understanding begin to wash over her. “The trunk was—”

  “Prepared before I was taken,” she finished.

  “Cristabel Desiree Albay…you are aligned with traitors,” Captain Navarrone said.

  She gasped. “I never revealed my name to you…nor am I aligned with traitors!” she insisted. Doubt puckered her brow then, and he knew she was thinking she had revealed her identity the night before, influenced by the devil’s rum.

  Navarrone pointed to the inside of the trunk’s lid—to her name printed there. Her gaze followed his indication, and she breathed a relieved sigh.

  “Still, I am no traitor,” she reiterated. “I have told you before that I—”

  “Yet you will not tell me all you know concerning the Chichester…your abduction,” he reminded.

  “You’re a pirate!” she exclaimed.

  “Even so, I am an American—American bred, American born, American raised—and I protect her,” he growled.

  “American born, eh?” she asked. “And where might you have been born, Navarrone the Blue Blade?”

  Navarrone knew he must win her trust—at least a measure of it. He knew that he could expect her to share nothing if he did not offer something in return.